


Visitors

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Post-Canon, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visitors

Athos hears his son giggling and shouting, and straightens up from the weeding he's doing. Raoul comes racing around the house, little legs pumping. He careens right into Athos, wrapping chubby arms around his legs, laughing wildly. Athos lifts him up into his arms, laughing too, unable to help it. Raoul's joy is infectious.

 

“What? What is it?” Athos asks, touching the boy's cheek, astounded as he always is by the beauty of the child. His child. His son.

 

“Gen'ral,” Raoul says, pressing a wet kiss to Athos' cheek and wriggling until Athos lets him go, running off again in as mad a dash as last time.

 

“What?” Athos calls after him.

 

Raoul is gone, though, so Athos has no choice but to follow the trail of giggles he's left, round to the front of the house. There are soldiers and horses in the courtyard, men dismounting all around. Raoul runs right through them, Athos picks him out easily. They move aside, some laughing, and Raoul is scooped up and swung around by-

 

“Porthos!” Sylvie calls, from the front doors, running down the steps after Raoul, into Porthos' arms.

 

Athos leans on the wall to watch, smile wide and pleased. Porthos looks for him, eventually, but only after giving out orders and hugging Raoul and Sylvie, kissing both their cheeks. Athos holds up a hand in greeting, amused at the time Porthos takes. Porthos raises a hand in reply and turns to- yes, that's Brujon, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant. Athos beams.

 

“Athos de le Fère,” Porthos says, coming over, removing his gloves, smiling so wide it splits his face. There's a new scar by his lip, splitting his cheek. “Athos.”

 

“Hello. Is it you causing all this chaos and disturbing my household?” Athos says, smiling right back. Porthos bellows with laughter and lifts Athos right off his feet into a hug. Then he grunts and sets him down.

 

“General. For heaven's sake,” Brujon says, coming up, touching Porthos' shoulder. “You'll-”

 

“Yes, yes, Brujon, fine,” Porthos says, waving him away. “Just greetin' an old friend. Get along with you, you have work.”

 

Brujon goes, throwing a dark look over his shoulder. Porthos grins at Athos, face crinkling up around it.

 

“And how is Marie Cessette?” Athos asks, offering his arm. Porthos takes it and they walk round back to the kitchen-garden.

 

“She is fine and fit and perfect. She has the most beautiful smile, and has started to have opinions. I have conversations with her, now, and El writes messages from her in their letters,” Porthos says, beaming.

 

Athos guides him to the little bench and they sit. Porthos sighs and stretches out his legs, leaning back against the wall, eyes closing. Athos surveys him, wondering where the hurt is. For there is a hurt, somewhere. Athos can still tell, even after five years.

 

“Elodie herself?” Athos asks.

 

“Also very well. She keeps us an 'ouse in Paris, and attends court! She and Constance have been wreaking havoc, the captain tells me. Educating the masses, teachin' women to fight, takin' in all kinds of riff raff into the garrison. Apparently we now have a servant who was- shock horror! A mother out of wedlock!”

 

Athos laughs, reaching over to squeeze Porthos' neck, fondness swamping him.

 

“I haven't heard from our captain in three months or more,” Athos says. “I believe I got him cross with me. I sent him a rather bad tempered letter.”

 

Porthos bellows with laughter, hand landing on Athos' thigh to steady himself. Athos grins.

 

“I had a cold,” Athos defends, which just makes Porthos laugh harder.

 

Brujon pops out from the kitchen and scowls, bringing wine and two cups. He also brings water, which he passes to Porthos first, and which Porthos accepts.

 

“If you cannot breathe, I have no sympathy, sir,” Brujon says.

 

“Stop your flapping. Off you go, leave me be,” Porthos says, waving the poor man away again.

 

“I will look to your general's well being,” Athos assures Brujon. “Broken ribs, am I correct? And… let me see… musket ball in his side? Mm. And has he wrenched that shoulder again? Yes, I believe he has done. Perhaps… I would guess that he has a headache, as well, but whether that is from an injury or not I have not yet been able to work out.”

 

Brujon beams at him, gives a little bow, and leaves them again. Porthos scowls at Athos, then shakes his head, laughing softly.

 

“Always forget how bleeding perceptive you are,” Porthos says. “You got everything.”

 

“Not quite, I think. You seem far too pleased for me to have got everything,” Athos says.

 

“An old thing, that pains me more than I'd like,” Porthos says, sighing, closing his eyes again.

 

“Which? I know that back wound you got during our first entanglement with Bonnaire sometimes hurts.”

 

“Not that, that's mostly gone away over the years. Elodie does magic with her hands, massaging all them knots that the scar gets in away. Nah, that's not it. Any other guesses?”

 

“You're not limping, so it's not your thigh, from last time we saw you. It cannot be your leg from our tangle with Alaman either, for the same reason. I already suggested your shoulder. I'm running out of body parts, here, my friend. Shall I guess-”

 

Porthos cuts him off with a brief roar of laughter, slapping Athos' hand away from his groin. Athos rests it on Porthos' arm instead, and frowns.

 

“Oh,” Athos says, softly, moving his hand across to Porthos' stomach. “Your gut. From the Court. All these years, and you still cannot eat what you please.”

 

“I eat as I please, I simply forget the consequences,” Porthos says, grimacing.

 

“I shall have Sylvie get something good but plain for dinner. Anything that might help?”

 

“Nah, not really. Heat, but that'll come later. Rest, but that, also, will have to wait. I'm not here just for a visit, I'm afraid.”

 

“No? What possible use could I be in your war?” Athos asks.

 

Raoul comes out of the house before Porthos can answer, pounding across the terrace and crashing through the garden. Athos leans across and catches him before he flings himself at Porthos, lifting him up so he can give Porthos a more gentle hug.

 

“You'll be pleased, I promise,” Porthos says. “Hello, little viscount. How is my favourite nephew?”

 

“He's your only nephew,” Athos points out, grumbling a bit.

 

Raoul chatters to Porthos for a while, settling himself in Porthos' lap. Porthos lets him, lets him even when he leans against Porthos' ribs and side and shoulder, even when he gets a knee in Porthos' stomach. Athos leaves them to it, deciding if Porthos wants to take the punishment, that's his business. He slips into the house to search out Sylvie, getting a kiss and then a deeper kiss.

 

“We have someone to watch Raoul tonight,” Sylvie whispers against his lips, smiling widely. “Many someones. Brujon's wife is apparently expecting and he's got all kinds of questions. He's very eager for some experience.”

 

“I didn't even know he was married,” Athos says, surprised.

 

“Apparently so.”

 

“What have you got planned for dinner?”

 

“No idea, yet. I was going to leave it to Jeanne to decide, she is our cook after all, it's her job.”

 

“Porthos' stomach's bad again,” Athos says.

 

“Ah. I will keep that in mind when I speak to her. Get him some tea, tell Jeanne to make it from the herb we found out last time he was here grumbling,” Sylvie says. “Now, go. I have work, you have work. Find out why our general has turned up, hmm? And secure us a night alone.”

 

“Done,” Athos says, enjoying the promise in her eyes, dipping his head to enjoy a kiss, too.

 

She has to push him away and wriggle away from his hands. He tries to get a feel of her as she goes, but she laughs and dodges his hands, sending him an amused, happy smile. He watches her go, Porthos' presence sending his thoughts back to Paris, to the camp, to the garrison, to those early days of forgetting everything for her. He breathes deeply, content settling over him, and wanders back out through the kitchen, stopping for the tea as Sylvie directed. He passes the mug to Porthos, sitting beside him again.

 

Raoul is scrabbling about for snails, bringing them to Porthos to examine their pretty shells. Porthos accepts the tea without question, eyes tired. Athos feels worry gnaw at him at the lack of protest of question. Porthos just sips the tea, watching Raoul. Athos watches Porthos, taking in the new lines and the new scars, the new cares on his shoulders. There are a lot of them.

 

“Porthos,” Athos says, gently, when Porthos has drunk the entire mug, and Raoul has gone off to search out Brujon to ask for stories that Porthos refuses to tell.

 

“There's a man. We're meeting him here. From Paris, nothing dangerous. An exchange of information. I am to return with him. Brujon and I.”

 

“Why meet here?” Athos asks.

 

Porthos' face breaks into another smile, but he just shakes his head, and tiredness takes over again.

 

“You are in pain,” Athos says. “Would you like to rest?”

 

“Perhaps. I have been… my dreams have not been kind to me, lately. I had a fever, with this musket wound,” Porthos says. “You know how fevers take me.”

 

“Yes, I remember. I could sit with you, if that would help.”

 

“You know it would,” Porthos says. “Which is why you are offering. If I sleep, I will not wake for dinner.”

 

“I'll tell Sylvie. I'll have something sent up. Warm water, too, for you to wash. Will you need help? How healed up are you?”

 

“I'll be fine, I have been doing it myself.”

 

“Would you like help?”

 

Porthos hesitates, then nods. He gets up and heads inside. He knows where he's sleeping, he always takes the same room when he stays here. It has been five years since they served together, but Porthos has come and gone, and Athos has seen him in Paris twice. Elodie comes out, sometimes, too, with Marie, sometimes Constance, too. Athos goes to let Sylvie know the change in plans, and then heads to Porthos' room.

 

Porthos is waiting, sat on the bed. The straps of his armour are undone, and his weapons are lying on the table, but he's got no further. Athos removes the rest, hands quick on the familiar straps. He strips Porthos to the waist and runs a cloth over the dark skin, over the bruises, pausing for the healing scrapes and cuts. He unbinds the wound and cleans that, also, tutting over the slight swelling.

 

“It's actually much better,” Porthos says. “I have news, too, that I haven't yet told. I only found out yesterday, I received a letter.”

 

“Is it good news?” Athos asks, pouring Porthos wine before cleaning the wound thoroughly, washing away the puss and blood.

 

“Ah, you monster,” Porthos says, sucking in sharp breaths, gulping down the wine. “Elodie is… pregnant.”

 

“Oh!” Athos says, pausing, the cloth pressed to Porthos' wound. “That's wonderful.”

 

“It is, yeah. Marie Cessette is over-joyed about it, thinks she'll make the world's best big sister.”

 

“You're worried?”

 

“Not about that, she's great, she'll do just fine. Probably better than fine. No. Not worried about that.”

 

“What, then?”

 

“Well, this one'll be… you know. It'll be mine. By blood. Elodie don't say anythin' about it. I don't know if Marie Cessette will understand the difference. I don't want anyone thinking, though, that I don't love 'er. A hundred percent, all of me. She's my daughter, Athos.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I don't want that ever to be questioned, especially not by her, or El,” Porthos says.

 

Athos re-binds the wound, letting himself take time, hands gentle where, he knows, they needn't be. He guides Porthos into a clean shirt and kneels before him to wash his face, reaching for the scissors to trim his beard. Porthos snorts, but allows it, keeping still, closing his eyes.

 

“You will love her, and you will love the new child, and you will love everyone. With all that great heart of yours. No one need question it, least of all Elodie or Marie. They won't question. They have never had any doubts, not since you walked into that village. Not since the moment Marie was born. You love them too well, brother,” Athos says, softly, when he's done. He dries Porthos' face, and presses a kiss to his cheek, then guides him to lie down.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You love everyone well. Me included. We have all been blessed, to have you,” Athos says. “Now rest. I will keep watch.”

 

“My captain.”

 

“Your captain,” Athos concedes.

 

If that's what Porthos wants, that is what Athos will be. Athos sits at the table, pours himself a measure of wine, and sets about cleaning Porthos' weapons.

 

**

 

Porthos sleeps restlessly. Athos stays up with him until he gets too tired, then he naps in the chair, then he gets Brujon to bring up a straw mattress. He figures he might as well take advantage of his house being full of soldier. Sylvie comes up with a reproachful look, when Porthos' men have made up Athos' bed, but Porthos chooses that moment to have a nightmare, and wakes whimpering, tears streaming, sat straight up, silent. Sylvie's mouth goes to a grim line and she nods, pushing him gently to the bed.

 

Porthos finally settles into a deeper sleep early next morning. Athos, exhausted, goes to fall into bed with Sylvie. Raoul is there, splayed in the middle, which is fairly usual these days. He keeps on crawling in with them in the night. Athos falls asleep at once, and wakes alone. He makes his way to the kitchen, where his family usually congregates with the farm hands and house-staff, in the mornings. Sure enough, Raoul's having a laughing conversation with the dog, Sylvie's talking to one of the serving maids, and the rest of the staff and hands are having a raucous breakfast, with the soldiers. Athos takes his seat and eats hungrily.

 

“You're guests will be arriving soon,” Brujon says, grinning widely. “How is the general?”

 

“He seemed well, when I left him,” Athos says, shrugging. “Leave him to sleep a bit longer. Unless he needs to greet these men from Paris?”

 

“Oh, no, he'll be happy to sleep in,” Brujon says. “So long as I…”

 

Brujon trails off with a private smile, waving Athos' questions away. Athos finishes his breakfast and then there's the noise of horses on the drive. Raoul runs through the house, and Athos and Brujon follow. Brujon throws open the doors with a flourish, laughing, pointing out to the courtyard. Athos goes, wary, and then gapes. There, dismounting, is Minister Aramis d'Herblay and Captain Charles d'Artagnan. Athos laughs, incredulous, taking a tentative step towards them. Then he turns on Brujon.

 

“He'll be happy to sleep, so long as you what?” Athos growls. “Chart my reaction for him?”

 

Brujon shakes his head, then runs, laughing, towards the stairs. Athos considers giving chase, but Aramis calls his name, and he turns back to them, instead, going to embrace them both. They're all laughing, asking each other questions. They walk back into the house, arms around each other's waists, and Sylvie laughs, running to greet them. Raoul is riding in Aramis' arms, wearing d'Artagnan's hat.

 

“Hello,” Porthos says, from the stairs, making slow progress down them, leaning on Brujon.

 

“What have you done to yourself?” d'Artagnan calls. “I assured your wife you were fine!”

 

“Just stiff, this morning,” Porthos assures. “Just stiff! I promise. Your assurances were true, I am in line with my last letter, I promise. Stop givin' me that look.”

 

“Is that an order?” d'Artagnan asks, laughing.

 

“If it 'as to be,” Porthos says, making it to the hall.

 

d'Artagnan just laughs harder, letting go Athos to embrace Porthos. Aramis is next, with a longer, gentler hug. Athos hasn't been privy to those two, of recent years, but their relationships seems to have blossomed. They're less wary of one another. It's not the same as it was in the early days, but there is trust there, now, and great fondness. Porthos leans right into Aramis, sighing, and Aramis kisses both his cheeks, then laughs a little wildly and kisses him on the lips, passionately.

 

“What'll me wife think?” Porthos says, pulling back, laughing as well.

 

“Elodie? We've got an understanding,” Aramis says. “She asked me to pass that along.”

 

Porthos grins, then looks confused, then growls, getting Aramis into a headlock, bellowing with laughter. Brujon sighs.

 

“Sir, your ribs,” Brujon says.

 

“Yes, they are mine, I am aware that laughing hurts,” Porthos says. “You been kissing my missus, Aramis?”

 

“Not at all,” Aramis says. “She kissed me.”

 

Porthos laughs again, leaning into Aramis, sighing, closing his eyes.

 

“It is good to see you all,” Athos says, feeling bemused and a little left out of things. “I have no idea why, though. What is going on?”

 

“Porthos has been scheming,” d'Artagnan says, squeezing Athos. “Don't worry, captain, there's nothing important in the works. He merely missed having us all together and thought this a great opportunity. We really do need to do an information exchange, and we really do need to bring him back to Paris with us. He is needed by the Minister.”

 

“He is,” Aramis says. “We need his strategic brain for a bit. Also, it happily coincides with him getting himself hurt, again.”

 

“A social call, with added politics, then,” Athos says, dryly.

 

“Exactly,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Who wants breakfast?” Athos says. “Raoul, give d'Artagnan his hat, and go see to your chores. Make sure you feed your pony, and then you have lessons. You can play with your uncles later, I will see to it that you have no lessons this afternoon.”

 

“He's five, he has lessons? Poor thing,” Aramis says.

 

“You cannot be telling me that the dauphin-” d'Artagnan starts.

 

“No, but he is-” Aramis starts.

 

Porthos cuts them both off by coughing, bending double with it, nearly toppling over. Brujon sighs and steps forward, pulling Porthos straight again, thumping him on the back. Porthos coughs and coughs, face heating under the strain, turning away from them. Brujon passes him a handkerchief.

 

“He is mostly well,” Brujon says. “He used to do this every few minutes.”

 

“He got sick, from his ribs?” Aramis asks, worry clear in his voice.

 

“I'm fine,” Porthos says, breathless, as the coughing goes away, spitting into the handkerchief. “Just fine. No fussing, please.”

 

Athos steps forward and takes Porthos' elbow, steering him to the kitchen, and to sit. The staff and hands have left, now, and only Jeanne's there, kneading bread.

 

“More tea?” She asks. “For your stomach, sir?”

 

“Thank you, that would be nice,” Porthos says. “It helped, last night.”

 

Jeanne smiles, and goes to heat some water. Porthos grins around at them all, breaking into more laughter, reaching for them one by one, touching their arm or their cheek or their hand. They all indulge him, beaming right back, exchanging fond looks. They exchange understanding looks, too, and ask one another if they're well, and exchange happinesses, and reach for each other.

 

“You've been sat here in silence for half an hour, it's upsetting the staff,” Sylvie says, bustling in.

 

“We haven't. Have we?” Athos says. “I thought we were talking.”

 

“No,” Sylvie says. “Porthos laughs now and then, and d'Artagnan's been making defensive noises, but that's it.”

 

d'Artagnan laughs, reaching to touch Athos' shoulder. Porthos rests his head on his hand and just beams at them some more. Aramis snorts and shakes himself.

 

“Well. Here we are, all four of us. How long since we've been together like this?”

 

“Four years,” Porthos says, without hesitation. He's been counting it, then. “Long years.”

 

“What was that time?” d'Artagnan asks.

 

“Porthos was recalled to Paris for a month, and Athos was at court for some reason,” Aramis says. “Why were you at court, you never come to court. Why do you never come to court?”

 

“Because it is terrible,” Athos says.

 

d'Artagnan laughs and nods his agreement, and he and Aramis have a silent argument that involves a lot of eyebrows. Athos reaches over to rub Porthos' shoulders.

 

“It's good to have everyone together,” Porthos says, leaning into Athos' hand. “I've been dreaming of Treville, with me fever.”

 

“Ah,” Athos says.

 

“Don't say 'that makes sense',” Porthos grumbles.

 

“I wouldn't dream of it. Shall I leave you three to do your business, or are we ignoring that for now?” Athos asks.

 

“Ignorin' it,” Porthos says. “It can wait. I was hoping… well, I was hoping you'd ride to Paris with us, come to court. Bring Sylvie and Raoul. Stay with Elodie and me. Raoul can see his cousin. Surely Sylvie would like to return to Paris now and then? We have a comfortable house.”

 

“I… will discuss it with her,” Athos says. He was about to say no, but then he'd thought of the built in child care, of the time alone he and Sylvie could have. He smiles.

 

“I wonder if I could make a no sexual congress under my roof rule,” Porthos whispers, grinning.

 

“Not likely. Your Elodie is pregnant, remember, no point playing coy, now,” Athos whispers back, and they both laugh.

 

“What are you two up to?” d'Artagnan asks, leaning across.

 

“Nothin' your young ears need to hear about,” Porthos says.

 

d'Artagnan rolls his eyes, then laughs uproariously, making a rude gesture.

 

“Raoul is right here!” Sylvie says, pretending to be scandalised. Athos can hear the amusement there, though, and she gives them all a fond look.

 

“Nothing his young ears need to hear about, either,” Porthos says. “Or see.”

 

“Nothing his ears need to see?” d'Artagnan asks, jumping in quickly.

 

Porthos roars and rises from the table, reaching over to get hold of d'Artagnan, tugging him over the table into a hug. Raoul looks on wide eyed, and he runs over as soon as Porthos lets go, begging to have a turn at being dragged over the table. Porthos grins, then shakes his head, sadly, sitting slowly back down with exaggerated winces and grimaces.

 

“I'm just an old man,” Porthos says. “Not so young anymore. Better not doing that. I forgot myself, there, a moment. Ah, my old bones ache.”

 

Raoul laughs and climbs into Porthos' lap, bouncing on his knees and begging stories. Porthos' face closes, and he looks helplessly at Athos. Athos scoops up his child and tells him a quick, thrilling tale of duelling and laundry and d'Artagnan getting tangled in said laundry and losing said duel. d'Artagnan scowls, Raoul laughs and is appeased.

 

“What is the matter?” Aramis asks, when Raoul runs off back to his lessons, an apple in his hand, Sylvie on his heels herding him that way.

 

“Just not got any good stories, this time around,” Porthos says. “That will come later, though. We're ignoring business.”

 

“Stories for Raoul encroach on business?” Athos says, rubbing Porthos' shoulders again. “Must have been bad, this time.”

 

“Bad enough. I'd rather not think about it, if it's all the same you you,” Porthos says, lowering his head.

 

“Then we'll talk of something else. Do these two know your news?” Athos asks.

 

“El probably told 'em,” Porthos says, head coming up with a questioning look. Aramis and d'Artagnan both shake their heads, and Porthos grins. “I'm havin' another baby.”

 

There's uproar as the other two offer congratulations and more hugs. Athos sits back to watch, enjoying the swelling of affection around him.

 

**

 

They take the ride to Paris slowly, breaking twice. They take a carriage, for Raoul, but Raoul insists on riding his pony at Porthos' side. Porthos rides at the pony's pace, and enjoys having the excuse. His ribs must pain him, and his side, but he never complains. He ends both days journeys coughing, though, and Athos makes him take a room with two beds and sleeps beside him the first night. Aramis takes the second night. Porthos has nightmares, and coughs, and calls out.

 

Athos hasn't been to Paris in a while, and the streets feel much narrower, much smaller, the people feel closer, it seems like there are more of them, that they're worse off. They're not, they're much better off, but he's not used to seeing poverty anymore. Many people know d'Artagnan and Aramis, and even Porthos, as they get closer to the garrison. Constance is waiting for them there, in the archway, smiling broadly. She kisses d'Artagnan, then opens her arms for first Porthos, then Athos.

 

“Elodie and Marie are just coming,” Constance says. “We weren't expecting you until tomorrow.”

 

“Porthos was impatient, once Athos agreed to come along,” d'Artagnan says.

 

Raoul and Sylvie climb out of the carriage, and Constance embraces them, as well. Then Porthos yells for sheer joy and a small girl runs at him, into his arms, lifted to his chest, held there. Porthos roars his pleasure across the garrison and sways, the little girl's legs dangling. Athos recognises Marie in the thick, fluffy red hair. Elodie comes up, too, a few moments later, and wraps herself around Porthos and Marie.

 

“Thank God,” Elodie says. “Thank God. We're glad you came home to us, Porthos. Here you are. Thank God.”

 

“Easy, easy,” Porthos says, then bursts into tears, laughing through it, face pressing into Elodie's shoulder. “Oh, I need to lie down. Look at you, Marie Cessette, you're so big. Look at you!”

 

“Papa,” Marie says, muffled by Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos cries harder.

 

“Hear that? I'm Papa,” Porthos says. “Hello, darling, hello, my heart. I've missed you!”

 

“Me too, Papa,” Marie says.

 

d'Artagnan ushers them all into the garrison, to his office, and they drink and laugh and talk for hours. Porthos stretches out on the small bed there, and naps between chatting with them, Elodie tending to him now and then. Marie sits with him, staring at Raoul, for a while. Then they both get over their shyness and go to play together, down in the yard with the recruits and the musketeers. It seems to be something Marie does a lot: when Athos looks out, he sees her being greeted and the men there take care of her. He sits back down, content.

 

Later, Athos follows Porthos back to their house. The children run ahead a little, Elodie calling them back often. Athos realises it's for Raoul's sake- everyone knows Marie. Porthos leans on Elodie's arm, and is very quiet all the way back. When they reach the house Porthos stands in the hall, eyes shut, breathing deeply. Marie touches his leg and gets lifted up and held, and she rests her head on his shoulder, stroking his neck and face.

 

“You're home, Papa,” Marie whispers, after a while.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos croaks. “Yeah. Home. Hello, my little love. Thank you.”

 

Marie gives him a hug, and is carried up the stairs. Elodie watches them with a frown, then turns to Athos. Sylvie has Raoul in her arms, Athos is resting a hand on her back. He notices Elodie's scrutiny and looks up.

 

“Is he alright, to be carrying her?” Elodie asks. “I cannot tell how badly he is hurt. His letters just tell me about how well he's healing.”

 

“If wants to carry her, he'll carry her,” Athos says, shrugging. “He knows his limits, has for years. We always just have to trust that he'll tell us when he needs us.”

 

Elodie sighs, but nods.

 

“That has been my surmise,” she says. “Do you want to take Raoul up, or is his bedtime later?”

 

“We will take him up,” Sylvie says.

 

Elodie leads them through the house to a large, well appointed room. When she leaves them, Athos smiles, proud of Porthos, to have come so far and own this house and have a child and a wife. Sylvie laughs at him, and goes to investigate the doors off the room. There's a smaller room, set up for a child, and Raoul runs about investigating for a while. Athos kisses Sylvie and then puts Raoul to bed.

 

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, coming out and shutting the door, “we will ask Elodie to take Raoul for a few hours.”

 

Sylvie beams at him, turning a loop of rope between her hands. She tucks it under the pillow and stands, coming to him, taking him in her arms, kissing him. There's a knock on the door interrupting them, and then Porthos comes in without waiting for an answer. He snorts at finding them breathless and close, then jerks his head and leaves.

 

“I think we're expected to follow,” Athos murmurs, into Sylvie's ear.

 

She laughs, and they go, arm in arm. Porthos is waiting at the top of the stairs. They sit in a warm living room, Elodie joining them with bottles of wine and cups. Porthos sprawls next to Athos, getting steadily drunk, reaching for Athos, reaching for Elodie, not contributing to the conversation. Athos stops contributing as well and sits back, holding Porthos' shoulder.

 

“What is wrong, my friend?” Athos asks softly. “You are unhappy.”

 

“I am glad you came back to Paris with me,” Porthos answer, equally soft, glancing at Elodie.

 

“There are things you don't want to speak of with her?” Athos asks. Porthos hesitates, then nods. “What about d'Artagnan? Aramis?”

 

“Some of the things I wish to talk about are things that effect… they are my friends, but here, in Paris, they are also Minister, Captain. Sometimes there are things I must keep to myself. Things I do not wish...”

 

“I understand,” Athos says. “They both play politics?”

 

“They do,” Porthos agrees. “I do, too. We all have to, with our positions.”

 

“Well, I was careful to construct a life where politics has no part,” Athos says, smiling.

 

Porthos nods, breathing deeply again, then closes his eyes. He looks like he's in pain. Elodie obviously thinks so, too, because she cuts their evening short and comes to tend to him, helping him up to his feet.

 

“We will see you in the morning,” Elodie says.

 

“G'night,” Porthos murmurs. “Oh, I drunk a bit much wine, love.”

 

“Yes, you did,” Elodie says, laughing. “Come, I'll help you up to the bedroom. Time to rest.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, face falling, darting a look to Athos. “Um. I've been restless, El.”

 

“Alright. I've heard your nightmares before. Seeing Athos doesn't cancel five years, Porthos. Come on, let me look after you.”

 

Porthos' face clears and he goes willingly, waving to Athos at the door. Athos sighs, relaxing, and Sylvie comes and sits beside him, taking Porthos place, leaning into his side.

 

“He'll be okay,” she says.

 

“Yes, I'm sure. It's just strange, to see him so. Recently when I've seen him I've mostly been seeing General du Vallon. He's been well and happy and around his men. Here, though, is Porthos as I remember him years and years ago. It is a little worrying.”

 

“He'll be okay,” Sylvie repeats, cupping his face and making him meet her eyes. She smiles. “That is what I meant, Athos. He will be okay.”

 

Athos nods, and lets her take him up to bed. He sleeps well, and realises, when he wakes late next morning, that he needed the rest. Two nights of broken sleep staying up with Porthos had robbed him of some equilibrium. He dresses, and goes down to search out his son and wife. They're sitting in the kitchen, with Marie. The children are talking, eating fruit. Sylvie's watching over them.

 

“Where are our hosts?” Athos asks, taking a seat beside her.

 

He's at once given a plate of food and a cup of wine. He eat hungrily.

 

“Elodie is in the drawing room, she had a visitor, and Porthos is still asleep.”

 

“Papa isn't asleep,” Marie says, looking up from her conversation with Raoul.

 

“No?” Athos asks. “How do you know?”

 

“I can tell,” Marie says archly, then grins and points.

 

Athos turns, and sees Porthos leaning in the doorway, grinning at his daughter. Athos laughs and pushes out a chair. Porthos joins them, sitting carefully.

 

“Ah, it's good to be home. Slept like the dead last night,” Porthos says, also getting a plate set before him. He looks up.

 

“Sir, if I give you that you'll be complaining about your stomach all morning,” the cook says, tutting.

 

“Right, right,” Porthos grumbles.

 

“Defend your breakfast, uncle Athos,” Marie says. “Papa will go after the bits he likes.”

 

Athos, quite used to Porthos' relationship with food, has already turned his plate to eat the thick meat and cheese that's there. Porthos grumbles, but tucks into his own food without much complaint. The household clearly knows how to keep him happy- they've given him a lot of the fruits he most likes, along with plenty of bread and other things that will both sit well with his stomach and please him.

 

The back door opens, and d'Artagnan comes striding in, a brown paper bag in one hand. He beams around at them and sets the bag on the table with a flourish. Marie yells and pounces on it, tearing it open and pulling out two apricots. She gives one, shyly, to Raoul, and bites into the other. It's clearly a ritual of sorts, d'Artagnan bringing fruit. He takes one and passes it to Porthos, sitting at his side, removing his hat and relaxing.

 

“Morning,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Mm,” Porthos says. “Breakfast.”

 

“Right,” d'Artagnan agrees. “Where's Elodie?”

 

“Drawing room,” Porthos says. “Mazarin called around.”

 

“Mazarin. The cardinal?” Athos asks. “What's he doing here?”

 

“He's after me,” Porthos says, with a grin. “He's part of our business here.”

 

“Elodie'll set him straight. No seeing her husband until at least two days has passed. Everyone in Paris knows the rule. The first two days home are for family,” d'Artagnan says, shaking his head with a laugh. “Mazarin should remember that.”

 

The door opens again and Aramis slips in, looking a bit furtive. He makes an apologetic face at them all, and then two guards come into the kitchen, taking up stations by the doors. Then Louis the fourteenth, future king of France, walks into the room. He looks around with an imperious look, eyes settling on Porthos. Everyone is up and bowing.

 

“General du Vallon,” Louis says, as they all straighten up. “I came to see if the rumours were true, and you had returned.”

 

“I have, sire,” Porthos says. “I will be up at the palace soon enough.”

 

“Did I see the cardinal's carriage out the front?” Louis asks, taking d'Artagnan's seat next to Porthos. Porthos sits.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, grimacing.

 

“I do not like that man,” Louis says. “Neither does my mother, or my minister. Though Aramis is better at hiding it.”

 

“Sire,” Aramis murmurs.

 

“Yes, yes, I know, I have duties. I'm eleven now, Porthos. Did you know that?”

 

“I did,” Porthos says. “I sent you a gift. Elodie brought it, did she not?”

 

“Yes, she did,” Louis says. “It was very nice. I would have preferred a sword, though.”

 

“However, your mother has forbidden me from giving you the blade I wish to give you for another year, so you will have to be patient, your majesty,” Porthos says, amusement clear in his voice. “Go on, back to the palace. I will come see you soon, I promise.”

 

“Do. I have many questions about our current strategy,” Louis says, rising again. “Minister, come. We have work.”

 

They leave again and Porthos, when they're out of ear shot, starts to laugh, reaching to hold Athos' shoulder, holding his ribs and bellowing it out.

 

“The king wants stories,” Marie says, smiling. “He likes Papa's stories.”

 

“That is true,” Porthos says. “He also wants presents, and fencing lessons, and he wants me to do something with Mazarin, though I am not sure what.”

 

Aramis returns half an hour later, also with an offering of food- sweet, crumbling pastries that look like they come from the palace kitchen. Porthos eats three before Aramis and d'Artagnan get them out of his reach. Marie, taking after her father, manages to eat five before they notice and get them out of _her_ reach. Raoul takes no interest in them, to Athos' relief. He doesn't have much of a sweet tooth. Elodie sweeps into the kitchen, looks around at them, then frowns.

 

“Where is Constance?” Elodie asks.

 

“One of the cadets?” Porthos suggests.

 

“You know my wife well. Yes, she is currently talking to one of our newest recruits, who is missing home. And getting into trouble. She'll come afterwards.”

 

Elodie sits next to Porthos, tending to him a little. She lets him kiss at her neck and giggle at her and then slump against her. Athos smiles, breathing deeply. He's surrounded by friends. There is a distinct possibility that whatever it is with Mazarin will grow into something, and Athos is sure he is about to have the others try and rope him into an adventure. For now, though, it is the four of them, with the people they love, and there's nothing to do but enjoy it.


End file.
